


Why Are You Here?

by chasoura



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, One Shot, Pining, after all, could be read as slash or, no beta i'm sorry :'(, what's platonic and romantic luv but two points on a sliding scale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24501997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasoura/pseuds/chasoura
Summary: Because Geralt’s never done anything in halves, and Jaskier has always been scared of what it means to be whole.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 147





	Why Are You Here?

**Author's Note:**

> Softly feral, is that a thing?

_If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more._

————

“You ever feel like you’re in one of those scenic paintings? The ones with golden sunlight filtering through the fog, wispy clouds in a cerulean sky, lovely mountains in the far background?”

“No.”

Jaskier scowls at Geralt, then pouts, but neither expression seems to faze the witcher, whose visage never shifts from its perpetual brooding look.

“But, perhaps I feel like I’m in one today,” comes the reluctant reply several moments later.

“I knew it!” Jaskier cries, because it’s true. Okay, it might not be a cerulean sky, but they _are_ traipsing through a lush meadow, a gentle mist hanging around them. Not enough to obscure any vision, thankfully, but a good amount that makes their surroundings take on a soft and dreamy quality. Geralt’s walking beside him, giving Roach some well deserved respite from carrying him everywhere, and she ambles behind them now.

He hums, fingers idly plucking the strings on his lute, when he feels the first drop. 

“Oh, for-” he hurries to Roach’s side where his lute case is. “Sorry, old girl,” Jaskier says, carefully strapping his instrument into her case. “A little bit of extra weight, but she’s precious, precious cargo. You know how it is.”

Roach nickers and flicks her ears; Jaskier smiles.

He gradually makes his way back to Geralt’s side and they continue on. Jaskier swings his arms back and forth, crosses them — but that feels awkward and closed off, clapses his hands behind his back for a split second before letting them drop. There isn’t anything for his hands to do — the familiar weight of his lute is missing, having needed to protect her from the drizzling rain, and now he feels restless.

“Pity that there’s no sort of enrichment out here.” How far does this meadow extend? It feels like they’ve been walking forever. “Although I expect this is a field day for you, what with contemplating mortality, and ethics, and…” he trails off, gaze settling on the two longswords on Geralt’s back.

Like the observant witcher he is, Geralt notices and side-eyes Jaskier, giving him a look that’s equal parts wary and exasperated.

“What.”

“Nothing at all, dear Witcher,” Jaskier sing-songs, trying to stifle his grin. He waits a few moments more, which seems to do nothing but make his traveling companion even more suspicious of him, before he pounces.

Swiftly, he drags Geralt’s sheath off his broad shoulders and bounds a few steps away.

“Bard,” the witcher sighs.

“Yes?”

He gets a single arched eyebrow.

“What? Oh, are you looking for this?” He shakes the sheath with its two swords as if they were a bag of treats and Geralt an excited puppy. “Hmm? Well. That’s a shame, because I do believe that it’s mine now. Mine, mine, mi-wow!” He exclaims, jumping back as Geralt makes a swipe at him. 

“You’ll have to do better than that, my friend. Whatever happened to your witcher reflexes, huh? Traveling companions made you go soft?”

“Evidently,” comes the growled reply before Geralt lunges again. “Jaskier, give it back.”

“ _Jaskier, give it back_ ,” Jaskier parrots and waves the swords around. “ _Jaskier-_ ” the second iteration is cut short as Geralt dives for him, and he takes off, running for the hills.

The light rain has made the grass slippery and Jaskier struggles with maintaining his balance, boots barely making stable purchase with the ground. This goes on for a bit, and Jaskier knows Geralt isn’t horribly angry or frustrated with him for taking the swords, else he would be eating dirt right now. He cuts a sharp turn and watches Geralt slip and fall trying to follow him.

“HA!” He yells, sprinting away, momentarily forgetting that distant-sounding running behind him doesn’t mean Geralt’s far away, just that he’s light on his feet. Looking back, Jaskier yelps when he sees that Geralt’s _right_ _behind him_. He swerves again, putting Roach between the two of them as a makeshift barrier.

Jaskier’s panting heavily and he’s pretty sure he’s grinning like a lunatic now. The rain’s made strands of his hair curl around his temples, but Geralt isn’t doing much better. On the other side of Roach, the other’s smiling, too, and, when coupled with his unnaturally golden eyes, makes him look a bit unhinged. The sight would probably terrify villagers, but it merely fills Jaskier with delight that sloshes over and spills onto his face.

Roach is apparently over their mini game of cat-and-mouse (traitor), for she snorts and canters out of the way, leaving Jaskier defenseless. He turns to run again, catches a glimpse of the distant mountains, before he’s knocked down and treated to the truly delightful feeling of wet grass mushed onto his face.

They roll around, Jaskier refusing to let go of the scabbard, until Geralt finally manages to pin him down on his stomach, wresting his swords back.

“Okay, okay, I acquiesce,” he gasps. “I’ve decided to be courteous and let you win, for I sensed that you were quickly tiring and didn’t want you to make a fool of yourself, embarrassing witchers everywhere.”

“Like hell you were, Jaskier.” Jaskier feels the witcher’s weight on his backside, doesn’t miss how his stomach seems to flip around like them in the grass. It’s an oddly comfortable heaviness, and he tries not to think further about it.

He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Swallows carefully and blinks.

“Right, well. I think you should let me up, now. These are fine silks I’m wearing, and I won’t let them be sullied by grass stains.”

Geralt hums a noncommittal reply and the weight increases before disappearing altogether. His mind reels a bit as he rolls over, letting the other help him up.

Jaskier’s so busy brushing his clothes off he almost doesn’t realise the other’s unnatural stillness until it’s too late.

“What,” he asks, peering at Geralt’s face. “Oh. Oh, no, no thank you!” There’s a glint in Geralt’s cat-like eyes that Jaskier doesn’t like, and the only sign he gets of what the other plans to do is a slight uptick in the left corner of his mouth.

Geralt shifts, and Jaskier whirls around and runs, senses without seeing the witcher hot on his heels.

Roach nickers, walking away from the two of them. He laughs breathlessly as he scrambles away, the two of them slipping and sliding through the wet grass, rain drizzling down all around them.

&

Geralt wishes he were in a tavern, soaking in a hot bath right about now. Breathing the air feels like inhaling a thick soup, and Jaskier had complained about the humidity enough this morning that they’ve stopped to wash off their sweat and get some relief from the oppressive air in a nearby stream.

Jaskier’s going on and on about the difficulties of keeping an instrument — “ _espe_ cially a lute!” — in tune when there’s high humidity, and though Geralt would like to say that he’s absorbing none of this one-sided conversation, he’s hanging onto Jaskier’s every word.

He sighs and closes his eyes, sinking further into the stream whilst listening to its and Jaskier’s babbling.

The bard talks like he sings and sings like he talks. Geralt would rather be killed by the slowest drowner in the world than admit it, but he does like Jaskier’s voice. Likes the lilting vowels and the way his voice goes up and down the octaves with every sentence. Over the years, Geralt has grown to appreciate Jaskier’s constant chatter, a comfortable blanket of words that’s big enough for the both of them. The way he chooses over and over again to join the witcher on his travels. Geralt appreciates _him_. The one constant in his life besides monsters, angry villagers, and the neverending Path.

He doesn’t know how to properly say all of this, and Jaskier would gently rib him, thinking that he was joking, anyways. 

So, he settles for grasping Jaskier’s ankle and yanking him under the water.

Unfortunately, Geralt doesn’t account for the possibility that Jaskier would, in his panic, drag him down too.

Millions of bubbles crowd his vision, lit up into iridescent spheres by the sunlight that makes it underwater. Geralt’s world is suddenly spinning in shades of blue and he tries to look past the screen of bubbles to figure out which way is what direction.

A pair of hands find their way to his arms and grasp on for dear life — he’s found Jaskier, then — and he wraps an arm around a narrow waist before propelling them both up.

“ _What the hell_ , Geralt!” The bard splutters as they break the water’s surface. “What was that for?”

Geralt blinks water from his eyes, smiles lopsidedly and says, “nothing.”

“Nothing? _Nothing?_ I could have drowned right then and there!” Jaskier’s shoulders are squaring up and his eyes are wide, no doubt gearing up to launch into a tirade about how dangerous it is to dunk poor, harmless bards in bodies of water.

Geralt thinks about how Jaskier’s eyes match the blueness of the stream.

&

“Melitele, we need to get you a horse sometime. Roach isn’t built to carry this much extra weight.”

“Are you calling me baggage?” Jaskier lifts his head up from where it was resting on Geralt’s back, but the witcher offers no answer.

“ _Yes, Jaskier_ ,” Jaskier growls, trying to drop his voice into Geralt’s deep rumble. “ _I am most certainly calling you baggage. This has nothing to do with the fact that I will not allow you to buy a horse so long as you plan to name it ‘Pegasus’, which is an idiotic name. This demand, however, only illustrates my own poor taste in name giving, since I named my own horse_ Roach _, and-_ ”

Geralt interrupts his rather charming soliloquy with a “look in the bag on your left”. Oh well. His voice was getting rather sore from imitating the witcher’s baritone, and he needs it tonight when they arrive in the next town over.

“Don’t think you’ve won this argument,” he says mutinously, before reaching around and rummaging in the pack. Nothing but their food provisions, a couple of misplaced potions, a pen he could have sworn he’d lost a few months back, a round object,

A round object?

He pulls the thing out, and it reveals itself to be an orange: a vibrant shade of tangerine, ripe and juicy and ready to eat. Jaskier briefly amuses himself with the entertaining imagery of the witcher scowling like he’s about to kill a man, leaning over a fruit stand and carefully examining its contents.

“Geralt, my friend,” he beams and croons exaggeratedly, holding the fruit up to the sun. “You really _do_ love me, gifting me this lovely specimen.”

“Don’t lean so far back,” comes the stilted reply. “You’re still holding onto my armor and its collar is choking me.”

But he doesn’t refute Jaskier’s statement, nor does he make a quip back, like he usually would. Jaskier’s wide smile softens, grows smaller and smaller until it’s a mere tilt to his lips, as gentle as the wind that weaves through the grass.

“Alright, now you’ve gotta peel this orange for me.”

“Why?” Geralt replies, but Jaskier can see he’s already reaching back for the fruit. He places it in the other’s waiting palm.

“Because, Geralt, it’ll get under my fingernails. And then it’ll stain them an awful dark yellow colour, and they’ll be like that for the next few days, and I’ll have to try and not retch everytime I see them.”

“Or, you think of yourself as something fragile and like to live in the lap of luxury.”

Jaskier smiles at the back of Geralt’s head, because they both know that’s not true — he’s weathered the same pains and struggles the witcher has when they travel together; he’s far from fragile. At least the first half’s true. Maybe not the second.

“Here, hold Roach’s reins.”

Jaskier reaches his arms around the other, grasps the reins and tucks his chin over Geralt’s shoulder, the way he’s done countless other times. Geralt’s hands move methodically, separating the rind from the orange’s flesh in one long spiral before pulling a slice away from the rest. This first piece is given to Jaskier, who opens his mouth to accept the offering. He’s careful to gently clamp it between his teeth, waiting until Geralt’s fingers are completely gone before closing his mouth around it and munching on the fruit. 

The orange bursts over his tongue, filling his mouth with its juice, and Jaskier chews thoughtfully. Geralt eats the next piece, then hands the next next one to Jaskier. Jaskier doesn’t know what would happen if he’d let his lips accidentally brush the other’s fingers. Perhaps he would burn, a white-hot a heat that starts from the tips of his fingers and toes and licks its way through his limbs until it reaches his heart and sets him on fire. Or perhaps he’d explode, vibrant and alive, like the orange slices Geralt hands him.

 _You really do love me_ , he’d said, truthfully, jokingly. Doesn’t dare say it in any other way, because that would _really_ change the well broken-in camaraderie that they’ve had going on. And he _likes_ their friendship; he doesn’t know how either of them would react if he relabels it.

 _You really do love me_ , he’d said, but what he really means is, what he really means is-is-

He imagines Geralt leaning over a fruit stand, yellow eyes roving over each piece of fruit, assessing its ripeness and fragrance. Geralt would hold the oranges in his large witcher hands, hands that have done harder things than hold fruit, ever so softly, never bruising, never.

&

They move like a well-oiled machine, at this point. 

Geralt would come back, covered in monster guts, and discard his armor in a haphazard pile by the door in his haste to sink into the steaming tub that awaits him. Jaskier would rise from where he sat on the bed, composing lyrics, and hurry over, fussing about the state of Geralt’s armor before adding several kinds of unnecessary bath salts to the water. He’d then go back to writing in his notebook and Geralt would finish up bathing, clothe himself, and seat himself at the foot of the bed.

He’s meditating, back leaning against the bed, when something large and ungiving is placed in his lap. Dragging himself out of his thoughts, Geralt opens his eyes and looks down. Jaskier’s lute. It’s owner’s hand is still wrapped around its neck, making sure it doesn’t topple out of Geralt’s lap. He looks up questioningly.

“What’s this about?”

“Thought it would be fun. You’ve taught me a fair amount of self defence before, and while I can’t exactly teach you anything that would be helpful for fighting monsters, I figured that this would at least be enjoyable.”

Geralt steadies the lute, holding it as gently as possible just in case he accidentally does some irreversible damage to it. The sheets on the bed rustle before Jaskier descends into his line of sight. The bard kneels before him, making easy chatter whilst putting Geralt’s hands in the right positions for playing.

“Relax, I trust you won’t break her,” he says when Geralt’s hands hesitate above the instrument.

“Jaskier, I don’t know how to play this,” he says quietly.

Jaskier looks at him and smiles, the corner of his eyes crinkling.

“It’s okay, I can teach you.”

Geralt thinks about how large his hands look holding the lute’s neck. He thinks about how he’s a witcher. He thinks of Renfri, of the countless other lives he has taken on the road to where he currently is. He’s the beginning of the end, the omen that always foreshadows death. He looks at Jaskier’s fingers, nimble and strong, calloused like his own and yet nothing like his at all. Fingers made for plucking and strumming, vocal chords for song. The bard is the creation, exposition, and climax of a tale, weaving immortality in a way others can only wish for.

“Jaskier,” he says again. Murmurs, really. “I don’t know how to create.”

And Jaskier looks at him. Really looks, and how had Geralt never noticed the darker ring of blue around his pupils before? How had he never noticed himself reflected back in that gaze, a mirror and a rebirth at the same time?

“It’s okay, I can teach you,” and the words are softer than the exhale of a long held breath.

Between the two of them, Jaskier is the one who is best with words, and Geralt is happy to let him wield them as he chooses. But just this once, he wishes it was he who had the ability, because his mind is drowning in thoughts yet his throat remains dry.

He settles for gaze, then. Hopes Jaskier will see what he’s thinking through his eyes, but Jaskier isn’t looking up.

“Look, this is how you play an _A_.”

&

Jaskier walks along the road by himself, lute slung across his back and an orange in his hand. He’d told Geralt to go ahead of him in the last town they were in, said it was alright and that they’d certainly meet again sometime in the near future. For some reason, he’d been hit by a creative streak that demanded his entire focus, which meant not leaving the room they’d rented until he’d rode the phase out. By the time he emerged from his writing frenzy, a week and a half had already gone by. And so he’d packed his belongings, stole an orange when the marketplace vendor wasn’t looking, then took off down a random road.

He’d normally peel the orange in whichever way enabled him to eat the slices the fastest, but this time he tries to peel it like Geralt does. A slow, careful unraveling, something that requires patience and concentration — a very Geralt thing to do, he thinks fondly.

He automatically holds the first slice out to his side before he registers exactly what he’s done. Detachedly, he stares at his arm for a moment longer, then slowly raises the fruit to his mouth. 

“Ah,” he says around the orange, which is stupid, since there’s no one there to hear him. “So this is what it’s like.”

Of course, he’s read about it in the books and he’s heard all the songs about it. He’s even written some himself, but he’d never thought that-he’d never thought.

Jaskier supposes that he’s always believed it would happen sometime; it happens to everyone, after all. He thought that it would feel like burning, burning, up and up until he’s nothing but ashes and dust and hazy smoke that hangs lazily in the air. 

But with Geralt it’s been this slow unraveling, bit by bit, until he’s stretched out in one long line, beginning to end, secrets uncovered and bared to the outside world, ready to be eaten. It honestly scares him how much he wants it, and how much he’s willing to do for it to happen.

He pops the last piece of the fruit in his mouth. 

A total of ten slices! An even split for two.

&

He hears that a certain bard had just passed through this tavern a few days ago, headed east. Geralt hopes that he doesn’t look too excited about the idea of reuniting with Jaskier again, but the looks that Roach tosses him while she trots over to the next town makes him think he isn’t exactly subtle.

Yen had once asked him, _when are you two going to stop dancing around each other?_ and he’d just _hmm_ ’d, much to her frustration. He wasn’t exactly unwilling to answer her, but rather unable to.

He arrives at the next town by nightfall, when the air’s turned cool and dry. Dismounting, he gives a couple coins to the stableboy, who takes Roach’s reins and leads her to a stall next to a white horse. Geralt snorts with faint amusement. Jaskier’s scent is all over that steed, no doubt about it. Looks like Roach doesn’t have to suffer the weight of two people anymore.

As he nears the inn’s front entrance, he thinks that Yen was wrong. They haven’t been dancing around each other so much as dancing with each other. They both know the steps and know the beat of the song their hearts tap out, but neither of them is able to say anything about it to the other just yet. There's something delicate, maybe hesitant, that hangs in Jaskier's court now, and Geralt is willing to wait as long as it takes until the bard decides to break it for the better.

He shoves the door open and steps inside the inn. Sees a man with a mop of brown hair and a lute, singing and flitting around the tavern’s customers. The innkeeper looks up from polishing glassware, calls “why are you here, White Wolf? We’ve no monsters as of late” but he pays him no mind.

_Composing your next song?_

_No, just trying to work out what pleases me._

“Geralt!”

————

 _Yes yes yes I do like you. I am afraid to write the stronger word._

**Author's Note:**

> 1st quote: Jane Eyre, Emma, p1815  
> 2nd quote: Virginia Woolf (I'm not sure from what the original line is from)
> 
> \---  
> Also! Unfortunately, my brain is very small and the list of witcher fics I have read even smaller, so I hadn't realised how similar structure-wise this fic is to [kageygirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kageygirl/pseuds/kageygirl)'s fic [break, blow, burn, and make me new ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24007405) until I'd stumbled upon it between speeding through a revision of this fic. Please read their fic as well! It's extremely well done (leagues better than my second attempt at writing ever, lol) and a lovely read.


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